The Master's Ties
by gwendy
Summary: Alternate Universe Gender/Role Reversal Case fic, in which the world's only consulting detective, the great Irene Adler, together with her assistant Mary Morstan, investigate a series of brutal bondage murders which lead them to one man—the notorious Master, Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**This is not your typical role reversal fic. This is also sort of a gender bender. So while the names of the characters are retained, their roles and personalities may be switched up. I'm currently writing this while I hit a bit of writer's block for my other fic "Her Chemical Defect". Hope you enjoy this fic! This is so fun to write since I'm totally writing outside the box, but still draw inspiration from the original characters and scenarios. I also draw inspiration from the Sherlock movies and in particular, A Scandal in Belgravia episode from Sherlock BBC.**

 **If you're looking for my non-AU Adlock fic, look for "Her Chemical Defect", which is ASiB written from Irene's perspective.**

* * *

 _There is no such thing as fate._

 _No such thing as a predestined future._

 _There are however, choices. Decisions. And we are the ones who make those decisions, the consequences of which will dictate the course of our entire lives._

 _Every day, we make hundreds of decisions—from what to wear, where to eat, what route to take to work, even which way to turn our heads. Each of those decisions we make leads to the life we have now._

 _But what if you had made a different decision in the past? What if your parents made different choices? Or their parents before them? Would you still be who you are today? Would you be a different person entirely?_

 _Or would your path simply have diverged into another plane of existence, so there are two, three, thousands and millions of versions of yourself simultaneously existing in the same timeline?_

"That's not an account of the last case."

Mary Morstan gave a visible jolt from where she was seated and gave her flatmate a scathing look. "Irene! I told you not to sneak up on me like that."

"I didn't," Irene answered petulantly, her dark hair wild around her shoulders. "I've been watching you type and delete, type and delete and type some more for the last half hour. It's not my fault you weren't paying attention to your surroundings."

Mary pressed her lips in frustration. She had been flatmates with Irene Adler for the past four years, and yet she could never get used to how exasperating this woman can be.

She gave Irene a once over. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Irene pointed with the cup of coffee she had been holding with her free hand. "That button up shirt fits very ill with your silk pajama bottoms."

"And I'm supposed to take fashion advice from someone who's wearing nothing but a sheet?" Mary retorted. "You are wearing something beneath that, right?"

"You were right on your first deduction." Irene sipped her coffee loudly and sat down heavily on her favourite arm chair, her other hand clutching the sheet to her body. "Now, can you tell me why you are writing what appear to be the beginnings of a dumbed down version of the Many-worlds theory instead of blogging about our last case?"

Mary bit on her tongue. Seriously, it was much too early in the morning for this. She eyed Irene's cup of coffee longingly but ultimately decided to humour her friend with an answer. "It's just something I've always been interested in. What if there are other parallel worlds with different versions of us? What would I have been like in that world? Would I still have been blonde? Would I still have been a nurse?" She narrowed her eyes at Irene. "Would I still have been assistant to the world's bitchiest consulting detective?"

"Only consulting detective," Irene said pointedly, placing her now empty mug on the stack of books on the coffee table. "Mary, there are an infinite amount of possibilities on how you and I could have been like if such other worlds existed. As it is, we live in a world where you are wasting your time with inconsequential trivia while there is a recently concluded case that needs to be blogged about."

"I wish I lived in another world where you don't nag me so much about blogging our exploits," Mary grumbled and turned back to her laptop. "Or in a world where we lived in a better flat than this."

"We would be living in a better flat if you did your job and blogged," Irene continued and grabbed the morning paper from the clutters of the coffee table. "That's where our clients come from."

Mary rolled her eyes and shook her head. She couldn't deny what Irene said was the truth. The blog, which detailed criminal investigations they had solved together, had catapulted Irene Adler and herself to internet stardom; and with it, came the money. A lot more than what she was getting from when she worked as a nurse, but still less than what she had been enjoying when she worked as a sniper in Afghanistan. But that was a lifetime away now. Mary Morstan was on the straight and narrow. Of course, from time to time, she'd had to shoot a bloke or two during case work, but she supposed there was a morbid kind of thrill she found there. She would never have succeeded in adjusting to civilian life had she not met and became party to the thrills of the life of one Irene Adler.

And as of the great detective herself...well, her full history was still a bit of a mystery, really. Mary did know Irene had a sister—Anthea Adler—who held a high position in the government, and that Irene had been a child prodigy, and would've graduated from Cambridge at the tender age of twenty had it not been for the drugs. Perhaps taking a degree in Chemistry wasn't so good for a very inquisitive genius who more often than not, experimented on herself. At least, that's what Anthea had told her.

As for the consulting detective gig, that had taken place a few years before they met, while Mary was still in Afghanistan. From what she understood from Detective Inspector Sally Donovan and Assistant Detective Greg Lestrade, Irene Adler had crossed the crime scene tape to look over the body of a homeless man they believed to have died from an overdose. She'd been high herself when they took her away but when she began spouting possible evidence for a murder instead of an OD, DI Donovan had it checked and guess what? The cocaine-addled Ms. Adler had been right, and she would continue to be right with the rest of the cases Scotland Yard consulted her on.

Mary opened her blog and scrolled through the very first entry: the day she had first met Irene. Mary had just arrived in London then. Suffering from PTSD, work had been hard to come by, and even harder was looking for a decent place to stay in. Luckily, she happened to run in to Sarah Sawyer, a doctor she had once worked with at St. Bartholomew's hospital, who told her about a friend who was looking for a flatmate. And that's how Mary Morstan had her first glimpse of Irene Adler—in the morgue, maniacally beating up a corpse with a riding crop as part of some sinister experiment.

"You had a fight with John, I see."

Mary swiveled her chair to glare at Irene, who was not looking up from the morning paper. She was holding the paper up with both hands, and Mary could only assume from the way Irene's sheet pooled around her waist that the woman was half naked.

Not like the detective cared for that really.

"What made you think I had a fight with John?"

This time, Irene did look up from the paper, her face still half-hidden, but with one thin brow arched in a condescending manner. "The shirt you're wearing is bunched up under the breast line, indicating that you have been crossing your arms over and over, as is a habit of yours whenever you're very upset. By the puffiness around your eyes, it is also clear that you have been crying and have not had much sleep. The slight reddening of the skin of your right ear shows indications that you have spent several hours on the phone with him to the point that the phone began to overheat, but in your anger, failed to notice that. Then there's the fact that you tried to take off your engagement ring, as shown in the way it has been moved further up from its original position but since you have gained a considerable amount of weight, you find yourself unable to take the ring off. Tell me, am I wrong?"

"I did not gain a considerable amount of weight!" Mary fumed, and much to her chagrin, found herself sucking in her stomach. "I gained a couple of pounds maybe."

"Six, if you want to be exact about it," Irene corrected. "There's only a few more months before the wedding so you better watch your weight. Oh, and better not eat that bagel if I were you."

Mary threw the pastry she had been holding to the plate beside her laptop. "Some Maid of Honor you turned out to be. You're supposed to be helping me keep my sanity and self-esteem together while I'm planning my wedding."

Irene flipped the newspaper down, her face scrunched up in confusion. "So you're still pushing through with the marriage? After your fight?"

"Yes, Irene, I am still engaged to John and I will still be Mrs. Mary Watson." Mary took a deep breath. She loved this woman, really, she did. They were each other's confidantes, best friends, partners in solving crimes and have saved each other's lives countless of times. But romantic love...despite Irene's great mind, it was something that went over her head _all_ the time. "Just because John and I have a little tiff doesn't mean the wedding is off. Couples fight. That's what couples do. We can't expect to agree all the time. In fact, it's couples who don't fight that are in the most danger of breaking up."

Irene's lips twisted, the way it always did when she was pondering on something. "I could never understand that concept. Isn't it much more beneficial to have less strife in a relationship?"

"You will never understand until you get into a relationship yourself." Mary shook her head and turned her chair around so she was facing her laptop again. "And for God's sake, will you cover yourself up? What if a client comes in? Or Mr. Stamford?"

"Our dear landlord is away on vacation, as you are well aware," Irene muttered, but at least she did wrap herself up in her sheet again. Mary could practically hear the fabric crinkle. "Did anyone send an e-mail for a new case?"

Mary scoffed. "I haven't even started blogging about our last case and already you're looking for a new one? What about the papers?"

"Solved them all." Irene made a show of taking the morning paper from the coffee table and hurtling it towards the bin at the corner of the room. It got in, of course, but not without a rattle that made Mary grit her teeth. "Kevin Talbot's in a drug den, Mrs. McDermott had her husband murdered, and the bank manager Ian Durst was in on the robbery. I'm sending a text to Sadie Donovan now."

"It's Sally. Sally Donovan," Mary reminded. "When will you ever get her name right?"

"When she starts doing her job right," Irene shrugged, sending off the text before tossing her phone on the coffee table with a clatter. "I don't know how she managed to be Detective Inspector with that dismal track record."

Mary rolled her eyes. "If you're so good why don't you apply for the DI position?"

"And be surrounded by the idiots of Scotland Yard?" Irene seemed genuinely appalled. "I'd much rather put a gun in my mouth and shoot myself in the head."

"Most people would prefer if you did," Mary charged back, though not without a hint of amusement. This exchange was commonplace between her and Irene. It was almost a daily ritual. "Now pipe down so I can start blogging. _Then_ , I'll look and see if we have any new cases."

"But I need a new case now," Irene whined and started pacing, or rather shuffling back and forth the sitting room. "It's been more than twenty four hours since the last one. I'm bored!"

"Well, why don't you go to St. Bart's, hm?" Mary suggested with a tight, patronizing smile as she began typing a new blog entry. "You know, go out, get a look at some freshly deceased body? I'm sure Anderson wouldn't mind your company."

"I already texted Anderson but it doesn't look like he got any interesting corpses for me." Irene grabbed her phone then practically shoved the screen in front of Mary's face. "And will you take a look at his reply? I mean really. Why does he always end his text messages with invitations for me to go have coffee with him?"

Mary shook her head. Dear God, this woman was dense. "He likes you, Irene. I've been telling you that for years."

"Well, of course he likes me," Irene said as-a-matter-of-factly. "I've been making his job a lot easier. He barely does anything when I'm there except stare at me like some imbecile. Though I have to admit, he does know how I like my coffee. Maybe he should have been a barista instead of a coroner. Is that why he keeps on inviting me to go out for coffee?"

Mary sighed. No use explaining these things to Irene. It was just a waste of time. "Why don't you check with Anthea? Maybe she needs you to save London again from another terrorist attack."

"If Anthea wants my help, she'll come here," Irene grumbled and resumed pacing behind Mary. "I may be bored, but I'm not desperate. If she has a case for me, she'll have to come fetch me."

"Then, I guess I came just in time, baby sister."

Mary looked up from her laptop. Sure enough, Anthea Adler stood at the doorway, her dark brown hair in perfect waves down her shoulders, her black dress suit impeccable. Flanking her were two men in equally dark suits.

"Hello Mary," Anthea greeted, giving a nod to Mary though her eyes remained on Irene. Mary watched as the Adler sisters looked at each other in silence, the air thick with their obvious disdain for one another. "Baby sister, would you be a dear and change into something more decent? We have men in the room."

Irene shrugged, the sheets coming down her shoulders a little. "So? By the looks of it, these men are patrons of some rather unsavoury pubs so they shouldn't be so surprised by the female form, especially since I'm a little more clothed than those women." Irene directed herself at the men. "You both still have some body glitter on you."

"I have a case for you," Anthea cut in. The men with her were looking at everywhere but the Adlers. "I've come here to take you to your client."

"You know very well that I only entertain clients in my flat, Anthea. Tell him he has to come here if he requires my services. Good morning." Irene pivoted and started for her room when Anthea stomped on the tail of her sheet, almost causing it to fall off her body were it not for how tightly she was clutching it.

"You've already deduced who your client is," Anthea hissed. "So stop acting like a child. He does not have the luxury of time nor can he afford the publicity if he were to come here himself."

"P-Publicity?" Mary finally found the urge to speak up, turning questioningly to Anthea. "Who's the client?"

"Only one of the most powerful men in all of Europe, and in consequence, the world," Irene answered, and with a haughty smile, turned to her best friend. "The British Prime Minister, Mycroft Holmes."

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 **That's it for now. Hope this is intriguing enough for you guys. I'll try to post once a week, every Saturday if I can. In the meantime, feel free to sound off your comments :) Would love to hear from you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Finished early so posting early. Bit of a change guys, to those who read the last chapter. In the first chapter, I mentioned there was only two months before Mary and John's wedding but after further delving into the fic, I realized this is much too short a time for the investigation to conclude so I changed up the dialogue to say "There's only a few more months before the wedding". I apologize for the confusion and I do hope you will continue to enjoy this fic. Thank you so much!**

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"Really, Irene. Couldn't you have worn a better set of clothes?"

"Would you rather I have worn that sheet?" Irene muttered under her breath and leaned heavily against the limousine's window, her blue eyes darting across buildings.

Anthea released a frustrated sigh from across her. "We are going to be meeting the head of Parliament in his private abode. The least you could've done is worn the dress suit I gave you. Or let your hair down instead of tying it in a haphazard bun."

"And end up looking like you? No thank you." Irene made a show of turning up the collars of her dark grey trench coat. Beneath the coat was a grey t-shirt with the words 'BRAINY IS THE NEW SEXY', a pair of well-worn jeans, and sneakers which had clearly seen better days.

This wasn't her usual get up of course. She just really liked seeing Anthea squirm, especially since she had once worn these when the elder Ms. Adler found her in a drug den once.

Those were the days. She didn't miss it. Not the smells, the broken windows, the stained mattresses and the other junkies in those abandoned buildings. But she did miss the highs. Good thing she now had her job as a consulting detective to depend on. This—solving crimes, exercising her intellect—was her new drug. Not to mention how lucrative some cases could be especially with generous clients, but money was only secondary. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through her veins...now that was priceless.

"Let's just be thankful she's wearing her coat," Mary spoke up from Irene's side then leaned in closer to her. "Will you at least consider closing the coat around yourself once we get there?"

"I'm not going there to impress anyone with my appearance, Mary. Now, you, on the other hand..." Irene gave Mary a once over, taking in the sight of her best friend's flattering purple dress. "I suppose that dress does become you. A little too formal, but you'll need every advantage possible."

Mary blinked, then turned to Anthea. "That wasn't a compliment, was it?"

Anthea gave Mary a tight smile. "Have you ever heard my sister give anyone a compliment?"

The car fell quiet, and Irene slowly released a breath. Finally. She had been wanting everyone in the limo to shut up ever since they got in, but no, Mary and Anthea had to talk up a storm about the last case, which involved a chef who killed his victims by serving them salad with some chopped up hemlock, a highly poisonous, parsley-looking plant. But that's over and done, and now, there was a new case to solve.

Irene closed her eyes and eased into her inner sanctum—her mind palace. There, she could look into memories and data she had stored through the years: an almost infinite knowledge base of facts that she used to solve cases. Now, she was using recently garnered information from the papers and the telly to figure out what exactly it was that Prime Minister Mycroft Holmes wanted of her. Oh, she supposed she could simply ask Anthea, but where was the fun in that?

"You're trying to figure out why the prime minister has called for you, aren't you?" Anthea cut in to her thoughts. "Too proud to ask me, little sister?"

Irene glared at her. Why couldn't this woman just leave her alone?

"You'll find out soon enough anyway." Anthea smiled just as the limo came to a stop in front of a large property with wrought-iron gates, a sprawling mansion against a backdrop of trees in the distance. "We're here."

All three women alighted from the vehicle. Mary was clearly in awe of the general splendour of the place while Irene remained stoic. This was just another piece of land, owned by just another client though she had to admit, she was intrigued. More than once, Anthea had called upon her to assist with a few missions for MI6, but she had never been called upon by one of the highest in the land, let alone meet with them face to face.

With Anthea's men in tow, they walked through the stone path leading to the mansion, past trimmed hedges and a large fountain before being shown through the door by the butler.

"Thank you, Harry," Anthea nodded to the butler. "Where's Mycroft?"

"In his study, Madam," the tall butler answered with a slight bow. "He's been expecting you."

"Mycroft, huh?" Irene mused as they followed her sister through the hallways of the grand house. "So you're on a first name basis with the prime minister?"

Anthea continued walking. "I do believe he has a timetable so it's best we hurry."

"And you certainly know you're way around this place."

"Shut up, Irene," Anthea growled but didn't look. Ah, so she hit a spot, Irene thought. Best preserve that information for posterity.

One more turn, and they reached a double door which Irene assumed led to the study. Anthea knocked.

"Come in," came a tired but noble-sounding voice from inside. After ordering the two men with her to stand guard outside, Anthea opened the doors, revealing a large study full of bookshelves, intricate rugs, fancy curtains and framed paintings. At the centre of it all was the prime minister, seated behind his well-organized mahogany desk.

"Anthea." Prime Minister Mycroft Holmes rose to his full height of six and a half feet and walked towards his top most intelligence officer with an outstretched hand. Even at this morning hour, Irene noticed he was already dressed and ready to work—thinning brown hair brushed in waves, white shirt beneath a crisp dark suit, shoes that were polished to mirrors, and a silver necktie that was interestingly enough, a bit wrinkled, as though it had been fumbled with over and over. A habit perhaps?

"Mycroft." Anthea shook the prime minister's hand. Irene snorted deliberately, earning her a glare from her sister. "Before anything else, please do allow me to apologize for the state of my little sister."

"Curbing the misbehaviour of younger siblings tends to be a full time occupation for the elder ones, I understand," Mycroft acknowledged in a strangely nostalgic tone.

The prime minister turned towards her. "Ms. Adler, the younger. You have to allow me to tell you how honoured I am to finally meet you. I have heard much about you from Anthea, and have read about all of your exploits."

Irene shook Mycroft's hand, and though she tried to appear impassive, she couldn't deny she felt a sense of pride from his words.

"And this must be Ms. Mary Morstan." He turned to Mary and shook her hand as well. "The decorated soldier, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I am a tremendous fan of your blog. Particularly the one about the aluminium crutch."

"Oh, well, thank you, Prime Minister," Mary answered rather coyly, much to Irene's annoyance.

"There would have been another case to read if she hadn't been too distracted to blog about it," Irene grumbled. This time, both Mary and Anthea threw her a glare.

"Shall we all take a seat?" Mycroft cut in, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk while he walked around and returned to his own seat.

"There's been a murder, Ms. Adler. A rather heinous one at that," the prime minister began, his long fingers fumbling with his necktie. Ah, so it was a nervous habit, Irene thought. "The victim was a daughter from one of the House of Lords by the name of Lydia Smallwood."

"Lady Smallwood's daughter?" Mary declared, then turned to Irene. "She was in almost every charity ball in the country and had been at the forefront of her mother's political campaigns. She also did a lot of charity work in Africa. She died about a week ago." Mary turned back to the prime minister. "The papers said her death was due to natural causes."

"Far from it, I'm afraid." Mycroft leaned back in his office chair. "Her parents spun those tales to keep people from prying. Ms. Smallwood's death was...of a more violent nature."

He gestured to Anthea, who promptly produced an envelope and handed it to Irene, who was sitting across her.

"She was found by her parents in their family lodge in Dublin," Anthea informed. "She had been dead around twelve hours by then."

Irene took out the contents and stared at it. From beside her, she could hear Mary's soft gasp as their eyes took in the image of a petite Lydia Smallwood, her naked and bruised body bound in intricate knots of rope, her wrists and ankles tied together behind her back. Wound tightly around her neck was a red silk necktie.

Irene flipped through the crime scene photos, her eyes unblinking as she memorized each angle that detailed the brutality of what had been done to the young woman. But when she looked at the coroner's report, she paused.

"Cause of death, asphyxiation?" She looked up and caught the prime minister's gaze. "From what had been done to her, I would have expected some kind of internal damage."

"It was all very controlled, her beating," Anthea chimed in, then smiled. "But I don't expect you to understand that."

Irene's brows met in confusion. "Understand what?"

"Bondage, dear sister," Anthea explained. "That is the reason why her parents kept the real cause of death a secret. They knew of their daughter's predilections and even had her institutionalized at one point but Ms. Smallwood would not be prevailed upon. Can you imagine the scandal if it was revealed that their saintly daughter died as a result of some auto erotica fixation?"

"Could the death have been accidental then?" Mary questioned.

"Not according to the private detectives hired by the Smallwoods." Anthea pointed at the folder that was still on Irene's lap. "She suffered a considerable amount of tracheal damage, indicating intent to kill. The necktie was the murder weapon."

"Clearly. Even Donovan can work that out." Irene twisted her lips in annoyance and gave a slight shake of the head. "And I suppose you want me to find her killer. What I don't understand is why the British Prime Minister would hire his own private detective to help solve a case for someone from the House of Lords."

Irene watched as Mycroft and Anthea shared a look. The study was quiet for a moment, save for the crinkles of fabric produced from the way the prime minister fumbled nervously with his necktie.

Mycroft nodded quietly to Anthea, who produced another envelope from her handbag. How she managed to fit in those envelopes in that small bag of hers was beyond Irene's comprehension.

Anthea took out a photograph from the envelope and handed it to Irene. "What do you know about this man?"

Irene took the glossy photo from her sister and gazed at the image of a pale-skinned man with high cheekbones, a well-structured nose, full lips and intense blue eyes, his slick dark hair combed back neatly, practically plastered to his head. He was smoking in the photo, the cigarette protruding from between long, tapered fingers.

"Nothing, whatsoever," Irene replied, still looking the photo. "Am I supposed to know him?"

"I suppose not." Anthea leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. "He goes by the name of Sigerson."

"Sigerson?" Mary repeated. "Just Sigerson?"

Anthea tilted her head slightly. "You could call it his...stage name."

"So he's an actor," Mary pursued.

"No. He is what you would call...a Master. A male dominatrix if you will."

Irene blinked, her fingers tightening at the corners of the photograph. "Dominatrix..."

"Don't be alarmed, little sister." Anthea gave Irene a tight smile. "It has to do with sex."

Irene snapped her head up. "Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?" Anthea chuckled in a way that made Irene want to hurl the photograph back in her smug face. "Masters like Sigerson provide shall we say, recreational scolding and punishment to those who take pleasure in that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it. They have a smaller market compared to their female counterparts—the dominatrices—and in their small community, Sigerson has made quite a name for himself. We can even go so far as to say he's the most sought after Master, with a clientele that includes London's elite."

"He is an attractive man," Mary observed. "Is he a suspect?"

"He's the primary suspect, yes," Anthea confirmed, and once again, pointed at the files on Irene's lap. "The knots used on Ms. Smallwood as well as the red necktie are all Sigerson's signature. He applies the technique to all of his clients. And Ms. Smallwood, we are to understand, happens to be a patron of his."

"Has he been brought in for questioning?" Mary continued.

"No," the prime minister answered, fingers still on his tie. "In fact, I would dearly prefer that he wasn't brought in by the police at all, hence my reason for coming to you for help, Ms. Adler. I need you to clear Sigerson's name."

"Wait..." Mary held up a hand. "I thought we were sent here to solve Ms. Smallwood's murder. Not prove the innocence of an alleged killer."

Irene remained quiet. Observant. The way the prime minister's fingers trembled as he fidgeted with his tie. The way his jaws tightened and his shoulders hoisted. The shape of his ear. His hair colour. His long, tapered fingers.

"He's your brother," Irene finally spoke. The prime minister froze, and the room fell silent. "Sigerson is your younger brother."

It took another moment before Mycroft spoke again. "We have kept a lot of people...successfully in the dark about this little fact, Ms. Adler."

"That the Prime Minister's younger brother happens to be in the sex trade? Or that he could possibly be a murderer?" Irene deadpanned. She could see Anthea holding back the urge to lash out at her, but she ignored it and leaned closer to the desk. "What's his real name?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. But he goes by his second name, Sherlock." Mycroft slumped down in his chair. He seemed to have aged before Irene's eyes as he ran a palm across his forehead. "It has been a long time since I last spoke that name."

Mary took a few sheets of paper the envelope on Irene's lap and began studying it. "Well...there's uhm...that's quite a lot of evidence against him, Prime Minister. Phone records...a calling card left at the scene...eye witness accounts of a man matching his description..."

"My brother is innocent," Mycroft Holmes insisted with such conviction, Irene was almost inclined to believe him were it not for the facts stated in the documents. "Sherlock Holmes may be in a...less than savoury line of work but I know my brother. He is a lot of things but a murderer is not one of them."

"Did you want us to clear his name on your own accord?" Irene asked, taking the files back from Mary. "Or did he come to ask you for help?"

"No, no." Mycroft shook his head. "He's much too proud for that."

Anthea smirked. "Sound like anyone you know, baby sister?"

Irene ignored her. "So all this is due greatly in part to brotherly concern, is that right, Prime Minister?"

"I worry about my brother. Constantly," Mycroft affirmed. "And I cannot begin to detail how much this would break our parents' hearts if all these were to come to light. But aside from that, the Smallwoods were actually the ones to approach me. They've been friends with the family for years, you see, and it would be beneficial for both parties if my brother were not in any way involved. Otherwise...well...at the end of the day, they still do need justice for their daughter.

"Now, Ms. Adler, tell me." He leaned on his desk, his hands clasped together tightly. "Will you take on the case?"

"Are you joking?" Irene grinned. "A socialite strangled and bound by ropes and a possible murderer whose innocence I will have to prove? Why, Prime Minister, you are spoiling me very much indeed." She shot up to her feet and pushed the files in Mary's hands. "Carry these, Mary. We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Mycroft made a face and rose to his feet. "So you're not going to take the case?"

"Of course I am." Irene stopped and threw a confused look at the prime minister. "I thought I made that abundantly clear."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Anthea reached out to give him a light pat on the shoulder. Irene made another mental note. "She's taking the case."

"Well...uhm...alright." Mycroft turned from one sister to another before his shoulders, which had been tense since they entered the study, finally relaxed. "If there's anything you need at all, Ms. Adler—"

"I'll need your brother's address," Irene interrupted, then with a smile, added, "And a new set of clothes."

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 **Hope you enjoyed that one. Expect that I'll be throwing references and dialogue from various episodes as well as shades from the movie. As always guys, thanks for reading. Am still working on the third chapter so that's going to be a while. Meantime, feel free to sound off your comments. :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'd just like to give a shout out for the extra work my Adlocker husband did in not just being my editor, but also working with me through the plot. I'd write him as a co-author, but he doesn't have an AO3 account. So please give a shout out and some love to my husband, alias JAMAEDA for all the support and for being a major help with the research of this fic, as well as some of the dialogue. Thanks Love!**

* * *

"First you wear those ill-fitting clothes to spite Anthea, and now you demand the prime minister for designer wear?" Mary declared as she and Irene exited the boutique to hail a cab.

"I didn't demand. He did say that he'll provide me with anything I needed for the investigation." Irene walked around to the trunk to deposit her shopping bags before slipping in to the cab with Mary. "Baker Street, please."

"I don't see how an Alexander McQueen dress helps with the case," Mary muttered once the cab started driving away. "That was pretty expensive too. The dress alone could probably pay for a couple of month's rent, and I haven't even included the Louboutins to the equation. Are you even sure you can walk around in those things?"

"Believe it or not, Mary dear, I have attended a few social events in my time." Irene eased back on her seat and tried to appear comfortable. She wasn't going to dare admit to Mary that she couldn't wait to change from her shirt and jeans. They'd become a little too tight over the years. "There was even a time when I ran after my target while wearing heels."

Mary chuckled. "I'll believe that when I see it."

"Well, let's just hope this Sherlock Holmes is the cooperative type. I'd rather not go on another high heel chase." Suddenly recalling the events of the morning, Irene gave Mary a disapproving look. "When are you going to start blogging about our last case?"

"Oh for God's sake, Irene. Are you still on about that?"

Irene grinned, then tapped a delicate finger on her lips as she thought of a title. "The Chef's Salad?"

"Too simple," Mary replied.

"The Salad of Death?"

"Immature."

"Jawlocked on Hemlock?"

"What? Is jawlock even a word?"

"I'm just making this up as I go. Humour me. What about 'The Recipe of Death'?"

"Close. I think I might go with 'A Recipe for Murder'."

"Ugh. You never take on any of my title suggestions."

"Most of them happen to be quite silly. This is the closest you've come to helping me with one." Mary took out her phone, stared at it for a moment before slipping it back in to her coat pocket. "Besides, blogging is my job, not yours. How am I supposed to earn my keep if I let you do everything?"

Irene raised a brow, her blue eyes making note of the way Mary's shoulders turned rigid. "You were checking to see if John tried to contact you, weren't you?"

"No," Mary said, a bit too shrilly. "I was just checking the time. It's almost lunch hour. Would you care for some salad?"

"With a side of hemlock in it?" Irene grinned.

"I just might add some in if you don't stop pestering me about that bloody blog," Mary parried. "I'll continue writing once we get home."

Moments later, the cab came to a stop in front of their flat at 221 B Baker Street. Irene was the first to get out and after taking her shopping bags from the trunk, took in her surroundings with narrowed eyes.

The nearby Speedy's Cafe was busy as usual, the sidewalks full of people with their eyes and ears glued to their mobiles. Passing vehicles honked their horns, the drivers eager for a break in their shifts so they can satiate their collective hunger. Nothing seemed amiss except for some fresh scrapings on the door's keyhole.

"Someone's in the flat," Irene muttered.

"Oh?" Mary's brows rose in unison. Her tone was casual, but Irene sensed a hint of concern. They'd experienced a few home invasions in the past, mostly from shady characters they'd run into during investigations. "Perhaps Mr. Stamford is back from vacation."

"It's not Mr. Stamford." She turned to give her friend a knowing look. "It's someone else who has copies of the keys."

Irene watched as Mary paled, then almost as quickly flush with colour.

Without a word, Irene stepped back and let Mary open the door, shaking her head when her friend rushed up the stairs, almost tripping in the process. How strange it must be to be governed by sentiment instead of rational thought.

She trudged up the stairs. She already knew who the intruder was and sure enough, she saw Dr. John Watson in the sitting room, locked in a tight embrace with his fiancée, a bouquet of roses still in his hand.

"Hello, John," Irene greeted casually. "Didn't expect you to take a day off."

"Well, you know," John shrugged and smiled, still hugging Mary, even swaying her a little. "Your best friend is worth it."

Mary sobbed loudly, and Irene had to fight the urge to groan. Still, she had to admit she was relieved to see them settle their differences. John was good for Mary, and though Irene would rather die than tell a soul, she had since grown to find his presence in her life not wholly unwelcome.

"Irene," Mary called, her face still buried on John's shoulder, "could you give John and I a little privacy?"

"O-oh. Right, right. Carry on, you two." Suddenly feeling awkward, Irene retreated to her room, shopping bags in tow. Yes, she could afford to let those two some privacy. After all, she was going to need ages to prepare for this new battle she was about to face.

After an hour of meticulous preparations, Irene closed her laptop and moved towards her full length mirror. The white Alexander McQueen dress fit her slim form perfectly, the black Louboutin heels granting her small frame a few more inches in height. Not a strand was out of place from her elaborate, vintage-inspired hairstyle, and her makeup highlighted every attractive feature in her face.

She looked decidedly different. Not at all like consulting detective Irene Adler, who preferred function over fashion. She was going to have a terrible time running around in this pencil cut dress, not to mention the heels. Hopefully, it wouldn't have to come to that, even if she'd love to prove to Mary that she can run in these shoes.

She searched through the bags and found the black fur shawl among her purchases and slung it over an arm. Yes, this was a perfect addition to the socialite look she was after. It was faux fur, of course. She may work with corpses a lot but she detested having to wear a dead animal on her person, even if it was for a case.

Grabbing a silver clutch bag on the way out, she walked down the hallway and found Mary and John, seated at the dining table, sharing a few laughs over a plate of sandwiches.

Irene didn't have to ask what they had been up to while she was gone. Their wrinkled clothes, dishevelled hair, and the telling streaks of lipstick on John's lips and neck said it all.

"Please tell me you didn't do it on the table again," Irene groaned. "I do experiments on that table."

"N-No!" Mary turned to her with a jolt. "We were in my roo—whoa." Irene watched her best friend eye her from head to foot. "Since when did you learn to do your hair and makeup like that?"

"Elementary, my dear Mary." Irene jutted her chin forward, a sly smile on her red lips. "I simply paid attention to the fashion billboards we passed by earlier and made a deduction of how the makeup was applied and—"

"Fibbing, Irene." Mary cut in.

"Okay. When we were out in the boutique, I managed to observe some women having their makeup done. It was a matter of memorizing how it was—"

"Still fibbing, Irene. That only works on John, not me."

"Okay. I got it from Youtube," Irene grumbled. "Happy now?"

"To have you admit that there are actually some things you don't know?" Mary chuckled. "Oh very much."

"In any case, you look very pretty, Irene," John remarked sincerely. "Finally have a date do you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't call it a date." Irene looked at the mirror above the sitting room's mantelpiece. Yes, she didn't look half bad. She still wasn't used to seeing herself so made up though. "But I do have to look good."

"Who are you meeting?" John pursued.

"An alleged murderer," Irene answered as-a-matter-of-factly.

"Oh." John paused. "So it's the usual then."

Irene gave John a mischievous smile. Yes, his presence was not unwelcome at all. In fact, he seemed to fit right in with her and Mary, completely unperturbed by the potential hazards in the cases they investigated. She even thought that just like his fiancée, John might be getting some kind of kick out of all this.

"The only kind of men Irene seems to be interested in are the dangerous ones."Mary let out a hearty laugh. Someone's definitely happier now, Irene thought.

"Well, he does tie up women and beat them up for a living," Irene agreed. "So no, I wouldn't exactly peg him for a kitten."

From the corner of her eye, Irene saw John almost spit out his sandwich. "Tie up? Beat up? W-What does she mean, Mary?"

Irene walked towards the dining table. "Our target for today, John, is a bondage master. Mary and I will be disguising as his clients."

"Bondage master?" John parroted incredulously.

"Clients?" Mary repeated in the same disbelieving tone. "What, both of us?"

"You're already wearing that dress. You're pretty much playing the part already. Although you may need to retouch your makeup a bit. I have some in my clutch." Irene reached out and grabbed Mary's arm, dragging her to the doorway. "Now come on, we have a tight schedule. And don't worry John. I'll return your fiancée to you in one piece."

"Try not to get her tied and beaten, if you please?" John called out, and with a bit of humour in his voice, added, "I'd like to be the one to do that to her."

Mary gasped, then giggled. "Or maybe I'll be the one to do that to you, John Watson!"

Irene shook her head. Two people in love, and yet they threaten each other with violence in a tender sort of way. It was all too bizarre. All too confusing. But that was another mystery for another day, Irene thought. Right now, she needed to focus all her energies on her current case.

It was time for her to solve the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 **So this is John's first appearance in the fic :) I'd like to think of him here definitely as the male counterpart of Mary from the original series/timeline so he's more of a side character than anything else, as Mary of course takes center stage as a version of him in this universe.**

 **As for the next chapter, I am honestly excited for you to read it, but I want it to be perfect so I hope you guys will be patient with me while I write and edit it.**

 **Thanks again for all the love you've been giving this fic, especially in AO3. I'll do my best not to disappoint.**


	4. Chapter 4

"How do you even know he's there?"

"I made a call to his building's receptionist." Irene checked her watch. It was half past two in the afternoon. The cab she and Mary were in was encountering quite a bit of traffic but they were making good time. "An older lady, I'm guessing in her sixties. She told me he does have a client but that he has no other appointments after three. Apparently, people think Sherlock Holmes, aka Mr. Sigerson works as a business consultant. The receptionist was quite chatty. We might be able to garner information from her later."

Mary frowned and looked up from retouching her makeup. "When did you make the call to his address?"

"Around the time you and John were having make up sex," Irene answered nonchalantly.

"Oh." Mary turned away. Irene didn't have to look to see that her friend was blushing. "And what exactly is this going to achieve? Going there, pretending to be clients?"

"I want to get a read on him." Irene looked out the window. They were about two streets away now. "I want to see how he interacts with his clients. See if there's anything in the room that will be of interest. Don't worry, we're not going to do anything. Think of it as a service inquiry."

"Shouldn't we have met with the Smallwoods first?"

"That was my original plan, but Anthea said they're currently overseas and won't be back until this weekend." One more turn, and the cab finally arrived at their destination—a prominent, high rise residential building in one of London's most affluent districts.

"He lives here?" Mary asked in awe after they had gotten off the cab. "How much does he make as a bondage master make anyway?"

"Enough for him to afford the penthouse apparently." Irene sauntered off to the entrance, hips swaying, head held high. The aura of a sophisticated woman. "Come now, Mary dear. We must make haste if we are to meet with Mr. Sigerson."

"My, don't you sound posh," Mary remarked with a smile and followed Irene inside the building.

Just like its exterior, the building's interior screamed of excess—sparkling chandeliers, marble walls adorned with paintings, expensive furnishings, and residents whose attire reflected their wealth and influence. Irene could see that Mary was becoming a little too intimidated. Perhaps she should teach her friend more about how to work a disguise.

Irene stopped in front of the receptionist table and beamed the most winning smile she could muster to the well-dressed older woman behind the counter. "Hello. We're here to see Mr. Sigerson."

"Oh, hello dearie," the older woman greeted. Irene watched as she rummaged through the counter and took out a clipboard. Personable, polite, not very techie, prefers doing things the old fashioned way. "May I have your name please?"

"Renee Wolfe. And this is my friend, Abigail Ambers," Irene gestured to Mary, who confirmed her impromptu alias with nervous nods. "We actually spoke on the phone earlier. Mrs. Hudson, is it?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson's smile widened, her eyes bright. "How did you know?"

"It's on your name tag," Irene pointed out, still holding on to her charm. This lady wasn't exactly the brightest bulb in the room, but she had a warmth about her that was not at all off putting.

Mrs. Hudson laughed, her cheeks reddening. "I'm sorry dear. I tend to forget these things sometimes. Anyway, I'm afraid Mr. Sigerson still has a client—oh! Never mind that. She just came out. Bye Meredith!"

Irene turned and saw a woman, waving back to Mrs. Hudson as she stepped out of the elevator and headed towards the exit. Familiar with the receptionist, so possibly a frequent visitor. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Pushing six feet in height. Voluptuous. Had breast enhancement surgery three years ago. Recent botox injections. Age estimated to be mid forties. Expensive dress suit.

And wearing a red silk tie.

"Fancy tie she was wearing," Irene declared after the woman had gone, turning her attention back to Mrs. Hudson. "I should very much like to have one for myself."

"I believe Mr. Sigerson gives those ties to his clients. A souvenir of sorts," Mrs. Hudson informed. "Custom made. You won't be able to find those in the mall, that's for certain."

Irene and Mary shared a look. This receptionist was proving to be a fountain of information. If this was the kind of company Sherlock Holmes surrounded himself with, then it was no wonder the Smallwoods' private investigators put him easily at the top of their suspect list.

Irene decided to put on a little insecurity in the mix. "Uhm, I'm actually a bit nervous meeting him. I really need his help if I'm to expand my business. Is there anything I need to know? Is he the serious sort?"

"Oh, no, no, don't concern yourself, my dear," Mrs. Hudson quickly assured. Yes, she was falling for the act. "Mr. Sigerson is one of the most charming men I have ever known. Always ready to greet people with a disarming smile. Why, I have never heard a cross word from any of his clients about him. They all seem very satisfied."

 _I'll bet_ , Irene thought. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I feel much better now. So, do we just head on up to his penthouse?"

"One second, dearie. Let me go call him, see if he's ready for you." Mrs. Hudson ambled towards the phone and dialled. It took a moment before she spoke again. "Hello, Mr. Sigerson. I have two ladies here to see you."

Irene kept close watch of Mrs. Hudson's body language. At the moment however, she seemed relaxed. Casual. Just another day on the job.

"A Ms. Renee Wolfe and a Ms. Abigail Ambers," Mrs. Hudson continued. "They're both the pretty sort. Well, Ms. Wolfe is a brunette and Ms. Ambers is blonde."

"Did he really need to ask that?" Mary whispered to Irene.

"I don't know," Irene whispered back. "Perhaps he has some preference."

"Okay, Mr. Sigerson, I'll send her up." Mrs. Hudson put the phone down. Her smile was apologetic. Something was amiss. "Ms. Wolfe, you may go up now. Ms. Ambers, I'm afraid you'll have to wait in the lobby. Mr. Sigerson says he will only talk to one client at a time."

"But we're both representing the same company." Irene tried to remain cool. Going in alone was not part of the plan. "Surely Mr. Sigerson will make a consideration."

"I'm afraid he was very insistent, dear." Mrs. Hudson shrugged. Irene suddenly didn't feel too friendly towards the woman. "The elevator's down the corridor. Just go to the top floor. And Ms. Ambers, the lobby's over there. I'll go get you some biscuits and tea."

"What now, Irene?" Mary mumbled as they moved away from the receptionist table and out of earshot. "Maybe we should have just told him who we really are. He's got to help us. It's his neck on the line after all."

"Didn't you remember what the prime minister said? Sherlock Holmes wouldn't even go to his brother for help. What more us?" Irene glanced behind her. Mrs. Hudson was still busy preparing a tray of biscuits and tea. "Chat her up, Mary. She seems to know and talk a lot. See what you can find out about Sigerson from her. I'll head on up to the penthouse."

"Are you off your rocker?" Mary shook her head. "What if he...does something to you?"

"Oh come now, Mary. It's not as though he's the first possible killer I've encountered."

"I wasn't worried about him killing you."

Irene frowned. What else should Mary be worried about? "I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," Mary agreed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "He's into a BDSM lifestyle. What if he...you know."

"You know what?"

Mary sighed, and Irene found herself being pushed to the elevator. "Just go. I'll see if I can get away."

Irene stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor, the doors closing just in time for her to see Mrs. Hudson carrying the tray towards the lounge chairs at the lobby.

She turned her eyes towards the floor indicator. It was the only interesting feature on this reflective confined space she found herself in, especially since there didn't seem to be anyone else using the lift but her.

She reached the penthouse in no time and walked through a corridor leading towards a door. On the wall beside the door frame was a doorbell and an intercom.

She rang the doorbell.

"Who is it?" a deep, resonant voice called from the intercom.

"Renee Wolfe, here to see Mr. Sigerson," Irene spoke, doing her best to sound sultry.

"Come in, Ms. Wolfe," the voice answered back. "The door's open."

Adjusting the fur shawl on her arm and smoothing out her dress, Irene reached for the door handle and entered, but was surprised to find no one inside. Sherlock must've used the intercom from another part of the flat, she thought.

"Hello?" she called out, closing the door behind her, her eyes moving over her surroundings. It wasn't at all what she pictured a bondage master's place to be, with its high ceilings, plain white walls, glass doors and a sun roof. The fixtures and furniture were all of modern and ergonomic design, and there appears to be a recurring colour motif of black and red, which was a startling contrast to how white and bright the entire place was.

"I'll be with you shortly, Ms. Wolfe," the voice she assumed was Sherlock's called from a short corridor by the open kitchen, which Irene assumed led to the bedroom. "Kindly wait for me in the sitting area."

 _"How convenient,"_ Irene thought with a smile. More time for her to look over the place then.

She headed for the couch—also blood red in colour—and settled herself in. She looked around. Not like there was much to look at really. Sherlock, it seemed, wasn't a fan of ornaments and decor. Everything in the entire flat was functional, though quite stylish. There were however, three things that caught her eye: a small office behind glass walls beside the sitting area, complete with a desk, swivel chair, computer and bookshelves, a black upright piano near the dining area with a small framed photograph on top, and a large, black and white picture on the wall in front of the couch she was sitting on.

It was the latter which captured Irene's attention: the blow up photo of an unidentified woman with dark, wavy hair, sitting on a mattress of silk and pictured from behind, her body bound in intricate knots of rope. Irene had seen something similar before in a recent crime scene photo.

Lydia Smallwood. She was bound exactly like the woman in the photo.

"Beautiful, isn't it? It's a personal favourite of mine from among all the photographs I have taken."

Irene almost jumped from the sofa but managed to catch herself. Sherlock Holmes was standing nearby. She had to keep up with her disguise. "It is a beautiful photograph Mr. Siger—"

The words died in her throat as soon as she turned to him. Her eyes were wide. Her jaw dropped. Her breath hitched. She had lost absolute control over her own faculties.

Standing beside her, was a completely naked Sherlock Holmes, his pale, toned body still glistening and dripping wet from the shower.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hello, Ms. Wolfe...or should I say, Ms. Irene Adler." Sherlock Holmes grinned impishly at Irene, and she felt her stomach tie itself in knots. Afternoon sunlight poured down the sunroof, giving his damp skin a faint glow. "What's the matter? Never seen a naked man before?"

"Only the ones in the morgue," Irene blurted out before she could stop herself, and Sherlock threw his head back and laughed. She didn't see what was so funny with what she had said. "H-How...how did you know who I am?"

"I can never forget a face...especially one I've seen on the papers and on the telly." Sherlock drew closer to her, and she found herself pressing her back against the sofa when he stopped directly in front of her. "Though I must admit, your disguise—the makeup and expensive clothes—can fool any man. Then again, I'm no ordinary man."

"Obviously, you're not. Otherwise, I wouldn't even be here." Eyes. She must keep her eyes on his face. Just his face. On his intense eyes. On his dark, damp hair which framed his sharp cheekbones. Dark hair...thin sprinkling of chest hair going down to his navel and...Oh God! Why did he have to stand so close?

"Was that a compliment, Ms. Adler?" Sherlock seemed to sense her discomfort. But if anything, it was making him bolder. "If so, then let me respond in kind by saying you look stunning in that dress. Though I would much rather have seen you in your scarf and trench coat. It's more you...though this...your disguise is a reflection of who you are as well."

Irene glared at him. "You think I'm a wealthy socialite with a fetish for whips and chains?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head, taking one more step closer. "I think you're a worldly woman who gets high off of danger and coming face to face with dangerous adversaries. In this case, myself."

Irene visibly recoiled but kept her defiant gaze on his face. Not like she had any choice. Why couldn't she have just dragged Mary to the elevator with her? "Aren't you the proud one, thinking I've already considered you a worthy opponent?"

"Shall I prove myself to you then, Ms. Adler?" His voice was barely above a whisper now, his blue green eyes shadowed by something she couldn't quite identify.

Then his face was suddenly inches away from hers, his hands on the couch's backrest, his thumbs brushing against her shoulders.

Instinct. First step, artifice. Distraction.

Irene grabbed her fur shawl and threw it over Sherlock's head.

Sight compromised.

Second step, increase distance.

She pushed him away with an open palm strike to his abdomen. He staggered back, regaining balance a little ways off from the sitting area.

Third step, incapacitate.

She rushed towards him with closed fists and threw two successive blows to his jaw. She shifts to land another strike, aiming for his cheek.

She swung .

And found her fist wrapped in Sherlock's fingers.

"Bartitsu. Interesting." Sherlock took the fur coat away from his face and flung it to the floor, his eyes bright with excitement. "Oh, Ms. Adler, you're sending my blood pumping already."

Irene pulled her fist free and took a swipe at his face. He dodged. She tried two more blows to his torso but he easily deflected her hands, almost sweeping them away from his body.

Then, he was open, his gleaming chest ripe for punching. She threw one at his sternum but he caught it in his palm. Fingers curled around her fist, he pulled her body towards his, locking her in place with his free arm and dipping her as though they were dancing.

His breath was against her ear, his chest pressed against her breasts. Droplets of moisture—sweat or water, she wasn't sure—dripped down from his hair and on to the scorching skin of her neck. Too close, too damn close. Why wasn't she moving?

Then, his nose travelled the length of her clavicle to the side of her cheek. "Mmm. Casmir. Lovely scent."

The tip of his nose, trailing her skin. His heavy breathing. His arm around her.

His nude body against her fully clothed figure.

Her heart pounding wildly in a way it never had.

She was going to kill this man!

Adjust strategy.

She lifts her leg and stomped on his feet.

Contact. With the heel of her stiletto Louboutin.

"Fuck!" Sherlock yelped and backed off. Vulnerable.

Irene progressed forward to step on his other foot.

He jumped and dodged the blow.

Damn, she shouldn't have repeated that move.

Before she could change tactics, Sherlock dropped to the floor and swiped her offending foot with his leg. Off balance, it took only a light push from his palm to send her toppling to the floor, the breath bursting out of her lungs on impact.

"Aikido," Sherlock declared, then pinned her body to the marble floor, his hands around her wrists, his smiling face directly above hers. "So...is this how you would like your first time to be?"

She tried to stand but his grip was too strong. "First time for what?"

A metallic click. "Get off her. Now!"

Irene turned and saw to her relief Mary Morstan, advancing from the main door, a gun aimed at Sherlock's head.

"It's okay, Mary," Irene assured. Sherlock had let her hands go and was slowly getting up on his feet.

"Okay?" Mary asked in disbelief, her gun still aimed. "Since when was it okay to be pinned down by a naked man who could possibly be a murderer?"

"Oh for God's sake, Mary..."

"So, I was right. Mycroft did send you." A momentary flicker in Sherlock's eyes. Annoyance? Sadness? But almost as quickly, his demeanour changed back to flirtatious as he offered a hand to Irene.

She reached out to take his hand in hers.

Then quickly pulled him down, using her free arm to push hard against his sternum and sending him falling beside her, his back slamming hard against the floor.

She quickly straddled him, her breaths ragged, her voice still shaking with anger. "You're not the only one who knows Aikido."

To her surprise, Sherlock laughed again, his chest rumbling beneath her palms. "You fight very well Ms. Adler. I must admit I am thoroughly impressed." He looked at her for a moment longer, his plump lips forming into a smirk. "Now, will you be so kind as to get off me? I'm afraid I may have become...far too excited."

Irene's brows met in a moment of confusion before she realized what he had meant and hastily scrambled off him, her cheeks hot. She knew enough about human anatomy to know what was poking against her skirt.

He rose to his feet, still unabashed. Mary gasped and looked away.

Sherlock's face brightened once more, seeming to revel in the attention as he walked over to retrieve Irene's fur shawl from the floor. "Do you mind if I use this?"

Before Irene could say anything, he wrapped it around his waist like a towel, his eyes on hers as he tucked one end at the base of his abdomen. "Excuse me ladies, while I prepare us some tea. Please make yourselves at home."

He gave Irene a wink before moving with confident strides towards the open kitchen, leaving her and Mary to stare at him with the same dumbfounded expression.

It was Mary who finally broke the silence. "I've missed a lot of things, haven't I?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Just thought I'd give thanks again to my husband for helping me out with the fight scenes for the previous chapter. He is of course more experienced with martial arts than I am so I had to rely on him for it. Also, we had to enact some of the scenes (with clothes on of course LOL) to make it more believable so yeah, we did end up with a few bruises for that last chapter LOL!**

 **And now without further ado, here's Chapter 6.**

* * *

"I must know, Ms. Morstan, how did you manage to sneak a gun past security?"

"You'd be surprised," Mary called from beside Irene on the couch. Sherlock was still in the open kitchen, still wearing the black fur shawl around his hips while pouring tea into white cups.

"Dear me, it seems I may have to file a report," Sherlock remarked in such a way that Irene wasn't so sure if he was serious or not.

She moved her gaze over the blow up photo on the wall again, imprinting the image of the tied up woman into her mind while running her fingers over her dark brown tresses, which had come undone during her earlier scuffle with Sherlock. Her own hair was not unlike the woman in the image, although she couldn't tell what shade the woman's was due to the photograph's lack of colour.

The likeness unnerved her somewhat, and she began to roll her hair up in a bun.

"Leave your hair down, Ms. Adler," came Sherlock's silken tone. Irene hadn't realized until then that he had already returned to the sitting area, and was now setting a tray on the coffee table. "You look much more enchanting with your hair cascading down your shoulders like that."

She paused, holding his gaze for a moment before tying her hair up anyway, albeit haphazardly.

Sherlock chuckled and sat on the arm chair closest to Irene, hands on the arm rests, legs crossed, a smirk on his lips. "So...did Mycroft send you to take me to the authorities? To look for further proof of my involvement in Lydia Smallwood's murder?"

Irene saw Mary look up with a start. "How did you know she was murdered?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Mycroft reached out to me a few days ago about it. And since my brother's right hand person happens to share the great Irene Adler's last name, I thought it was only a matter of time before he sent both of you after me." He paused for a moment, his unblinking stare still on Irene. "So which is it? Take me to the police? Or prove I killed her?"

Irene shook her head. "Neither. We've actually come here to prove your innocence."

For the first time that day, Irene saw Sherlock's bearing change from confidence to suspicion. At least, that's what she garnered from the way he narrowed his eyes and ran a finger across his lower lip. "And what makes you so sure that I'm innocent? Clearly, you saw the report. The way Ms. Smallwood was bound, the red silk tie around her neck...they're the signature style of Master Sigerson." He gestured to the photograph on the wall. "You've been staring at that picture long enough, Ms. Adler—a picture I photographed myself—for me to infer you have seen something similar, possibly in crime scene photos. And I make it no secret that Lydia Smallwood was a patron of mine."

"So you're saying you're guilty," Mary pursued.

Sherlock's cocky smile reappeared. "I didn't say I was."

Mary remained undaunted, much to Irene's surprise. "So you're innocent?"

"I didn't say I was either."

It was Irene's turn to narrow her eyes. If there was anything she loathed more than being belittled by her older sister, it was dealing with uncooperative clients. "Mr. Holmes, I'm not here to play games."

"But I am." Sherlock suddenly leaned forward, and despite the relative distance between them compared to earlier, Irene found herself backing away a little. "You were sent here to prove my innocence. So go on, Ms. Adler. Impress me. More than you already have."

Irene moved her eyes over him. Over his dark hair which was slowly drying into soft curls. To his blue green eyes with its pupils blown wide open. To the mischievous smile on his lips. The throbbing vein on his neck. The taut muscles straining against his lean form.

She read...

Nothing. Nothing at all to indicate who this man was beneath this aura he was projecting. And she hated herself for being unable to read him.

"The evidence is all circumstantial at this point." She masked her confusion behind a cold, professional tone. "But it is strong enough to merit an arrest. So I suggest you cooperate with us or else our next meeting will be with you staring out from behind the bars of a cell."

"Then you will have failed in solving this case." Sherlock leaned back to his arm chair, appearing so completely in control that Irene wanted to step on his foot with her stilettos again. "All those other cases of yours...your impeccable track record, tarnished by one man."

Something inside her broke a little.

No. Even if she weren't to solve this case, her record wouldn't be tarnished.

It already was. By the one case that truly mattered.

"I sense anger in you," Sherlock cut through her thoughts, his tone surprisingly tender. "Ms. Adler...did I happen to strike a nerve?"

Irene's fingers curled into fists. She wanted to remain calm, to keep him, or Mary from seeing through her sudden vulnerability but when she spoke, her voice came out threatening. "You're making it very difficult for me to do my job, Mr. Holmes."

If Sherlock sensed the venom in her words, he didn't show it. "Nothing worth doing is ever easy, Ms. Adler."

Silence. Thick, stifling silence. From the corner of her eye, Irene could see Mary staring at her then at Sherlock as they continued to lock gazes. She knew now her bubbling resentment was clear for all to see. Worse still was he seemed to be reading her like an open book while she was getting nothing from him. Absolutely nothing. He was just sitting there, staring back at her, invincible to her deductions.

Damn him!

Mary put her cup down with a slight clatter, and Irene couldn't have found the interruption more welcome. "Can you at least give us some insight if there's anyone who would...perhaps copy your style. Maybe to frame you?"

"So you're thinking this is a frame up now?" Sherlock sighed. He sounded almost bored and maybe a little condescending. "Where's your evidence? What's their motive? What's my motive, if I am the one who killed Ms. Smallwood?"

"Why are you doing this?" Irene burst out. She hadn't meant to. But this man...this impossible man was making her do and feel the unexpected.

"Because I like detective stories, Ms. Adler. And detectives...particularly you." His answer had caught her off guard; so much so that when he leaned closer again, she didn't even have the sense to back away. She could practically see her own reflection in his eyes. "I'd like to see how you work this one out. I'd like to see more of you and not just what I've read of you from Ms. Morstan's blog. Or the papers. Or your website. I'd like to watch you work that pretty brain of yours that I've heard so much about."

"You rea..." She managed to stop herself. She had been about to ask if he really read her website, especially since Mary constantly teased her about having zero visitors. And that was a completely irrelevant question. "You...you just want to spite your brother, don't you?"

"That's the first accurate deduction you have made of me." Sherlock laughed again. He seemed to dearly love to laugh. Then, almost in an instant, his eyes darkened. "Yes, I do not appreciate Mycroft nosing around in my business when he has made it perfectly clear for years how he'd rather pretend I never existed. If he gave you the impression that he was after my well-being, then you have sadly been misled."

"What do you mean?" Mary asked.

"The general elections are coming up," Sherlock pointed out, and even without the rest of his explanation, Irene understood the implications. "If...or rather, when word gets out about the murder, and I get arrested, well, it probably won't bode well for his career now, wouldn't it?

"Now, if you'll excuse me, ladies," he rose from his chair, his eyes once again on Irene, "I need to get ready for another appointment. Should you need to contact me again, you can simply ask my brother or your sister for my phone number, as I'm sure you will have to report to them about our discussion. I imagine Mycroft won't be very pleased but then again, he shouldn't be surprised."

Irene didn't want to go. Not yet. She had too many questions, too many deductions that needed to be made but just like his penthouse and his current state, Sherlock Holmes by all appearances was laid bare in front of her. She saw everything and yet she saw nothing; saw points of interest but nothing to point towards a resolution of the case.

She grabbed her clutch and slowly stood up from the couch, as did Mary. She rarely conceded defeat, but with this man, she would have to leave to fight another day.

Sherlock escorted them out. They had just gotten out of the door when she heard him call out. "Oh! Almost forgot, Ms. Adler."

She turned to face him and almost choked. Sherlock Holmes was naked once again and holding out her fur shawl to her, a cheeky smile on his face. "Your shawl, m'lady."

"Keep it," Irene blurted out.

Sherlock's smile deepened as he held the shawl to his chest. "Thank you. I shall treasure it."

Irene pivoted and walked towards Mary, who was standing by the elevator with a pensive look on her face.

Then, Sherlock's voice rang through the corridor again. "I hope to see you again soon, Ms. Adler."

"Catch you later," Irene threw back, earning her another round of laughter from Sherlock.

"A witty sense of humour. I love it. You are a truly remarkable woman."

Irene didn't turn to look; simply hurried to the elevator, hoping she moved quickly enough for Mary to miss how flushed her face had become. Only when the elevator doors closed did she finally let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding in.

Mary let out a deliberate cough. "Well...that was...he's quite a character, isn't he?" A pause. When Irene looked up, she saw her friend was once again looking at her in a thoughtful manner, only this time, her lips were curled up in a teasing smile. "I think he likes you."

Irene ignored the comment. "He's hiding something. Something big."

"He and his brother are obviously at odds," Mary observed, arms crossed across her breasts. "Do you think he committed the murder to destroy the prime minister?"

Irene rolled her eyes. Sometimes Mary came up with the silliest conclusions. "And endanger his own freedom in the process? He may detest his brother, but I don't think it would be enough for him to sacrifice himself. He seemed the type of man who loves himself too much for that."

"Well, if he isn't guilty, why isn't he cooperating?"

"Didn't you hear him? This is a game, Mary. And he wants to play."

Mary scoffed. "By the looks of it, so do you."

"You know me." For the first time since coming face to face with Sherlock Holmes, Irene beamed a confident smile. "I always do like a challenge."

* * *

 **Thanks again to you my lovely readers! The case is progressing, now that we finally got a few exchanges in between Sherlock and Irene. Next chapter will feature more investigations and hopefully you'll enjoy the case as much as the interactions between Sherlock and Irene.**

 **Until the next chapter! Meantime, I will welcome your comments and reply at the soonest ;)**


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